Scarlet Cloaks and Silver Blades
by cchummerson
Summary: When an ambitious young man named Kurt's village falls victim to a series of violent werewolf attacks, a renowned priest and his charming son, Blaine, are summoned to slay the beast; only to find that the wolf is much closer than it seems. Completely AU.
1. Origins

** A/N Okay, so before you guys kill me for not writing in a while, allow me to offer up a reasonable excuse.**

**Does writer's block count as a reasonable excuse? No? Can you make an exception this one time? Lately I've gotten ideas for good Klaine fics but they never end up going anywhere. The truly funny thing about these individual ideas is that they all involved either Kurt or Blaine not being human (i.e. my incubus!Blaine fic, which is so strange that I _won't_ post it-unless you guys really want me to-or my guardian angel!Kurt and angsty!Blaine fic, for which I had many ideas that I couldn't tie together coherently...) and my ideas grew so abstract that I forced myself to stop writing them down and go sit in a corner to regain my sanity for some time.**

**But anyway, before I write a whole chapter on me, I recently visited Redbox and rented Red Riding Hood. The movie itself was meh, but I thought the plot had some promise in it. So, I decided to kinda sorta maybe adapt some of those ideas into a fic. That's how this was born. But...I hope you like it, nevertheless!**

**~ Ceecee**

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><p><em>Kurt<em>

Life used to be something I never put much thought into. It seemed so simple, really. You would be born, you would do what you were supposed to do for a handful of decades, and then you would slowly crumble away until finally coming to a halt at death.

One, two, three. That was it. That was all I needed to know.

I grew up in a small, nameless village tossed somewhere in middle of a green labyrinth that made up the Forest. The Forest also had no name; mankind had never tamed it enough to call it his own. Beyond the expansive Forest were mountains, which separated us from the rest of the living. Our village was not well-known because of these massive pieces of land, and we normally went by undetected by other colonies. It was a rare occurrence that we received visitors-those who were born in the village never left unless on rendezvous and those who lived elsewhere never came. After all, with all your family and friends living in one area, why would you have need to travel unnecessarily?

Still, rumors about the other colonies fluttered into our village from time to time. We would gather around and listen, bewildered, as our rendezvous party described the people who wore skins of animals, the vast supply of dormant horses (our village had only a handful of them), the houses made square from the bones of the earth, and the mysterious, ghostly pallor of the men and painted faces of the women. Our buildings within the village were of a simple architecture, usually circular in nature, constructed mainly from the lumber that our woodcutters salvaged from theForest. Woodcutting was one of the few jobs our village had, and was strictly considered a man's chore. Women were expected to stay with the children and center their work on the interior of the house; cleaning, cooking, sewing, and nurturing.

I lived near the center of the village with my father, his wife, and her son. My mother, a beautiful woman named Elizabeth, passed away from plague when I had only lived my eighth winter. Her death was extremely hard for our family, my father especially. He and I had continued to live alone for eight more years, and he was as wonderful a father could be, teaching me how to ride horseback, how to hunt, how to work, how to be a man...

He never found out that I would not stay inside or go out and play with the other boys while he went to work. He never knew that I secretly met with some of the women in the village and implored them educate me in the craft of how to mend damaged clothing and create meals. It was best he did not know, as discovering that his teenage son was learning how to do women's work would most likely break his heart.

This kept up until my seventeenth winter, when my father met Carole, a woman in the village whose husband had also passed away from illness. Shortly after their meeting (much shorter than I deemed comfortable), they married and she and her son Finn, who was also in his sixteenth winter, moved into our house.

It was not an easy transition.

Her son and I disliked each other greatly, having nothing relatively in common. While Finn rather notch his crossbow and hunt for deer, I tended to stay home and assist Carole with chores around the house. My father did not mind, he was too preoccupied with earning enough to raise a family to mind.

However, as time passed, Finn and I learned to tolerate one another-more for our parents' sake than our own. He showed me how to sharpen sticks into spears while I feinted interest and I showed him how to close up holes in his pants, a regular occurrence with his choice hobbies.

And for a while, all was well. But even whiles reach an ending.

The attacks started a winter later.

A woodcutter named Rolfe, a dear friend of my father's, had wandered away from the rest of the woodsmen one evening in search of thicker trees to cut down. He never returned from this excursion. Upon hearing of his disappearance, his fellow woodsmen set out to search the dense Forest, hoping to retrace Rolfe's steps and find him. Eventually, they did come to find him. Well, parts of him. They discovered something else, too. Imprinted among the blood-swollen soil was a fresh, irregularly large paw print.

My grandmother had always told me stories about creatures who stalked the night-half man, half beast-that devoured both animal and human flesh alike. A werewolf, she told me, relished nothing more than killing other living things; its victims screams were like siren calls, their blood the murderer's aphrodisiac. Many a gruesome tale about these creatures had been told, and as the other children shrieked and trembled, so I sat still and intent, horribly fascinated by such grisly stories.

According to legend, during the rising of each pregnant moon, a seemingly normal man would undergo a hideous transformation. His skin would sprout a thick pelt of fur, his nose would lengthen and bond with his mouth and chin, his teeth and nails would sharpen themselves into fierce points, his bones would stretch and bend into inhuman forms, his ears grew long and hairy, his body would form a tail, and in his place would be a monster. The only sliver of humanity a werewolf retained was his eyes.

Of course, as we aged, most of us came to believe that her stories were just old wives' tales, made up to frighten children into good behavior. No one expected them to be real.

Grandmother was the second to die.

And so began our fear of the night.

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><p><strong>I know, I know, not much action. But rest assured, I'm just getting started. Your favorite characters will soon make an appearance and I won't force you be stuck reading monologues. I'd <em>love<em> to know your thoughts on this, so feel free to click on that little button that says "review" and lend me your knowledge :)**


	2. The Visitors

**A/N Fun fact: Right before I was about to post this chapter, and because my computer is a pain, I accidentally deleted half of it and had to rewrite it. Oh what fun! Anyway, hopefully this chapter is more interesting than the previous one (It actually involves talking this time! Yay for human interaction!) My schedule is hectic right now, so try to bear with me! I'll make a goal of updating at least once a week!**

**~Ceecee**

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><p><em>Kurt<em>

_I've been having the strangest dreams recently. They always are the same- I find myself running and running through trees, though whether in the Forest or not, I've been unable to tell. Anyway, as I'm running, it feels as if my legs have disappeared and I'm soaring through the air. Is that not the most peculiar thing? Finally I reach the end of the Forest and stand still, staring up the base of a gigantic mountain. And then, I clasp my hands on the rocky ledges and begin to climb. I awaken in a startle before ever reaching the summit. Mother used to tell me that dreams were not just random thoughts in our mind, but forms of predicting was is to come. I don't know if that is true, but if so...what do these dreams mean? The Forest? The Mountains?_

_I plan on talking to Miss Emma about this as soon as I possibly can. I need an answer. I need to know more about_

"Kurt!"

My writing instrument (a thin, cylinder-shaped metal contraption that had been brought back from one of the rendezvous party ventures, it was called a pen) slipped out of my hand and tarnished the page with a large inky blotch as I jumped in surprise at the sudden voice calling me. I quickly blew on the ink, hoping to prevent further damage.

"KURT! MOM!" The shouting grew louder as the door of our house was thrown open. Finn appeared at the entrance, bent-over and breathless from running over. Carole peered up from her hemming and smiled at her son's near-frantic state.

"In the loft, Finn."

"He should be able to hear me." My brother replied, cocking his head to the side and looking up into the second floor. I set my journal aside and slowly waved at him from my perch on the bed.

"Come down here!" Finn said enthusiastically. "There's something Burt and I need to tell you! Both of you!" As much as I wanted to continue with my writing, there was no denying Finn's wishes, lest he actually clamber up the ladder to get me. I sighed deeply and unfolded my legs, carefully slipping a feather into the pages of my journal to hold my place. Finn was practically hopping up and down with excitement as I descended the ladder.

"What is it now?" I asked, trying to mask the impatience in my voice. "Did you find another rabbit or something?"

"It was a deer..." Finn cast a resentful look in my direction before turning to face Carole. "And no. I was up at the gathering hall just a moment ago, and I heard-"

"Finn, what on earth were you doing at the gathering hall when you should have been working?" Carole interjected, disapproval sinking into her voice.

"-that I'll explain later. As I was saying, I was at the gathering hall and I overheard Old Jenson saying that our village is expecting visitors to come stay from an outside colony!"

Carole gasped and pushed the unfinished dress which had been lying limply in her lap aside, leaning forward with a newfound interest. "Visitors? But we have not been visited in over five winters!"

"It's true! A man and his son are coming within three days time!"

Carole's eyes grew wider and she leapt up from her stool, exhilaration flashing across her delicate features. "How...how wonderful! Just imagine that, visitors! Kurt, dear, is that not delightful?" I opened my mouth to reply, but was cut off as the door opened again and my father stepped in. He was a burly man, not the tallest of our village but certainly not the shortest. His appearance made him intimidating to most, though contrary to his rough exterior he was actually a very compassionate man. A gust of cold air rushed through our house, provoking a shiver down my spine.

"Not just a man, Finn." Father corrected. He peeled off his coat and set the bucket of water he'd been carrying onto the floor. I resisted the urge to grab a rag as some watcher sloshed out over the rim of the bucket.

"What do you mean, Burt?" Carole asked, rising from her stool to kiss my father on the cheek. "My god, you feel like ice! Sit over here and warm yourself, dear." She guided him over to the fire pit, carefully unhooking the pot that had been sitting over it and placing it on the stone framing the pit. "We don't want you falling ill." At this time in the afternoon, the fire had been reduced to smoldering embers, glowing hot and red and then fading out to gray, only to flare up once again. It cast a pleasant orange light throughout the house, emphasizing the shadows and making them appear larger. Father settled down and sighed contently at the warmth.

Carole examined the embers with a critical eye. "Kurt, go get some more kindling, please." I obediently turned to open the door but father shook his head, assuring Carole that he was fine, really, and motioned for me to stay. I sat down on Carole's stool and looked back at him expectantly.

"As I was saying, we are not being visited by just any man," father began, rubbing his hands together, "this man, he is a priest."

Finn nodded, embarrassed. "Right. A priest and his son are coming."

Carole's hands flew over her heart in shock as she and I let out a simultaneous gasp.

Werewolves cannot be killed by mundane objects. They can be injured, yes, but not mortally. A blade to the heart will not cause him death, only some pain. To kill a werewolf, you need a weapon made of the purest silver. The type of weapon does not matter; it could be arrows, a stake, a knife...Religious icons are beneficial to the hunter as well. That's why most werewolf slayers are priests. Their personal connection to some form of holy deity works as a double-threat. A man who is a werewolf is not wholly human, and therefore his soul is tainted, impure. He finds no sanctuary in the cross and is enemy to anything considered to be sacred.

"A...a priest?" I spoke up, ashamed of the tremble in my voice. "But the attacks have not grown so horrible-"

"We have already lost so many of our people to this beast, Kurt." Father replied gravely. "It is no longer satisfied by any of our offerings. It does not hunger for our plumpest pigs or widest goats. It hungers for humans. The wolf must be stopped." Father turned his gaze away from me. "Father Anderson has killed werewolves before in his life. He is our only hope to be rid of this burden." His eyes watched the embers as they flared up, making his face redden. Silence fell, no one daring to speak.

I stared down at my folded hands regretfully, sorry about the insensitivity of my words. I had not meant them to be so terse, really. I had hoped that our village would have taken control of these attacks. We anticipated the wolf's arrival, which, like the full moon, was a monthly occurrence. For years, we sacrificed our best livestock in hopes that the wolf would leave us alone. And as long as you stayed inside during the "wolf nights" you would be safe.

But things had changed. As if he had changed his mind, the wolf stopped taking our animals and began to target us instead. The fear this monster created, the suffering, the death...

Our village was plagued by it.

Finally, Carole replaced the pot over the stove and silently asked for me to bring the bucket of water over so that she could begin preparing our meal. We quietly cut up vegetables and meat, whispering only when we needed assistance from the other. Finn climbed up to the loft for a rest, as I watched him skeptically, wondering if he would be bold enough to read my journal. And father continued to watch the fire, never moving until Carole gently roused him from his chair with a bowl of soup. The silence lasted through our meal to the end of the night. Even as I climbed into the loft and stripped down for bed, father had not uttered a single word. Clutching my shirt to my chest, I watched as Carole approached him, touching his shoulder, imploring him to come away from the fire and offering up a smile as he nodded compliantly and rose from his seat. Behind me, Finn cleared his throat. I tore my eyes away from the fire and gazed back at him.

"What?"

"It really gets to him, you know."

"What does?"

Finn rolled his eyes at me. "You know what."

"Yes, I do know what." I frowned. "But...it gets to everyone, Finn."

Finn merely shook his head and began to remove his shirt. He didn't notice how my gaze lingered on him as he did so.

"He lost three people he loved to that monster. He's got a right to grieve. Wouldn't you be upset if your friends were murdered?" I was no longer in the presence of an adult and spoke casually, the way most of the teenagers in the village did. Finn gathered up a thick quilt and settled onto his mattress.

"Well yeah, I would. But-"

"But NOTHING. Just because my father is a man doesn't mean he's not allowed to show his feelings! There's absolutely _nothing_ wrong with that!"

Finn motioned with his hands for me to lower my voice. "I didn't mean that there was anything wrong with him having feelings. I was just saying, maybe next time you should think before making thick-headed comments about the wolf attacks not being a big deal. Especially considering that a number of those victims who were…who are…deceased were very close friends of your father's. Don't speak so ill of them. You shouldn't have even spoken at all."

I narrowed my eyes at my stepbrother. "And what exactly," I said, keeping my voice low, "do you mean by that?"

Finn's expression remained passive. "I mean," he replied, "that you should stand aside and learn your place."

I had no idea where my rage had come from, but I suddenly had the irrepressible urge to grab my journal and throw it as hard as I possibly could at Finn's head. "Don't you _dare_ talk to me like that. Like I'm some…some…unruly housewife!"

My tone had no affect on Finn's bluntness. "Well you most certainly are not a man. Not in this village, not in this house."

It felt as if he had slapped me hard across the face. No, it hurt even more than that. Addressing a man as a woman in my village was one of the highest forms of disrespect a person could express towards another. It was equivalent to spitting at one's feet and declaring "you are worthless and mean nothing to me." My eyes stung as I pulled up the ladder from the loft and shut the trap over the opening, filling the room with darkness. Then I groped my way to my bed and settled down before allowing myself to even considering crying. Finn was quiet. He had not premeditated my reaction to his words to be tears. Perhaps I would not have taken his words so personally if I went into the forest and hacked at trees with an axe like the other men. Perhaps if I found fascination in hunting and eventually starting my own household. Perhaps, if I felt some form, any form for that matter, of attraction towards the girls in my village… Perhaps if I acted like a man. Closing my eyes, I let out a deep breath of remorse silently bidding my sweet mother a goodnight and eventually drifting off into a restless sleep.

That night, I dreamt of trees and mountains.

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><p><strong>Reviews help make the world a happier place, you know. :)<strong>


	3. Bad Omens

**A/N I'd like to address a little feeling of unease I have towards the outcome of this story. I'm not sure whether it's the content, theme, or rating that's barring it from receiving more positive feedback (not necessarily popularity, just feedback in general), but I have to admit that it's had me worried a bit. But anyways, to keep it short and sweet: This was about seven document pages long on Word :) LONGEST CHAPTER SO FAR! Which isn't saying much since there's only three, but you know. Love you all!**

**~Ceecee**

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><p><em>Blaine<em>

I awoke before the sun itself had risen, to the sound of hooves crunching against fallen leaves. My eyelids slowly fluttered open as I sat up and tried to gather my bearings. Firstly, I was laying in a position that deemed itself indubitably uncomfortable, judging by the dull ache in my legs and neck as I attempted to stretch out. Secondly, I wasn't at home in the sanctuary of my own bed like I would've preferred, but rather curled up in the back of a shaking carriage. And thirdly, I was surrounded by bags of garments and other various supplies while still inconsequently exhausted.

Rubbing a hand over my stiff neck, I peered out the window at the endless blur of green that was streaming by. The sunrise was near; the sky blushed a romantic shade of pink. We were in a forest, that much I knew, but exactly what forest, I was unaware of. Words couldn't express how much I wanted to be home, wherever that might have been at that point.

However, as my dad always told me, duty proves itself more significant than personal desires. It was generally a practice easier said than done, but I attempted to live out his hypothesis as fully as humanly possible. Even if it meant getting my hands dirty.

Dad and I had been called to perform a vanquishing for a village whose existence up until this point I had never been aware of. It was nowhere near the village of Aspen, which was the furthest from home we had traveled thus far. The rumors I'd heard about this village were not altogether too flattering, either. Those who actually had some familiarity with the village had awful stories to tell, including the news that the village we were going to wasn't even named, and the people were so primitive that they washed clothes in a river and took multiple spouses and both male and female siblings shared a bed to stay warm at night. But apparently the young women were quite fetching (this only caught my interest for a second, as my dad and I did not stay long enough in one location for me to pursue romance) and the men were civilized enough to speak with a dignified eloquence when addressed.

I was preoccupied with the thought of having to share sleeping quarters with a stranger when the carriage lurched to a sudden stop, slamming me backwards onto the floor. Scowling from the sound of my dad laughing at my misfortune, I threw open the door and slid out of the compartment. All I saw was an perpetual chasm of trees. The driver of our carriage assisted my dad off of the perch and tilted his hat in salutation.

"This be as far as we go." he announced, dismounting himself and reaching out to one of large copper-colored horses that had been pulling the structure.

"Chessie can o'ly lug such a heavy load fer so long. You havta travel by foot from 'ere."

I suppressed a groan and flexed my numb toes inside my shoes. Walking felt impossible. Dad nodded and gave the man and handful of small gold coins.

"Much thanks, Seamus."

Seamus cradled the coins in his hands and counted them eagerly. "So generous! 'Course, but of course! Ever delighted ter assist you, Father Anderson."

Dad motioned to me. "Blaine, unhitch Pavarotti. And be sure to do so with haste."

The palomino raised his head at the mention of his name. I offered him a smile as I unbuckled his harness from the carriage. I practically sensed him sighing in relief as I removed the bridle from his pale face, stroking his muzzle lovingly and placing a small kiss on the white patch on his forehead. I'd known Pavarotti since I was nine, and through the ten years that had passed since then, had grown to consider him as my best friend. He had been my mother's horse back then, but at the time of her death was decidedly passed over to me. My dad didn't share my affection for the animal, however, and often expressed his disdain.

"You are too tenderhearted towards animals, Blaine." he admonished, tying packages together for easy transportation. "How do you expect to become a werewolf slayer if you cannot bear to be separated from a mere horse?"

"The only things Pavarotti eats are grasses and plants and those shouldn't matter to people. I replied, taking a bundle and hoisting it onto my smarting back. "He's not a killer like werewolves are. He's a lovable creature."

"He is a horse, Blaine." Dad was solemn, "Also, keep in mind that words are not meant to be butchered, therefore butchered they should not be."

I ignored his criticisms of my casual speech and strapped some bundles to Pavarotti's back, patting him reassuringly as his neck muscles twitched in protest at the load. "Just a few more miles, Pav. You should be fine. After all, you have four legs and I only two."

Dad merely shook his head at me and bid Seamus goodbye. The small man tilted his hat once again before climbing back onto the carriage and whipping the reigns. His chestnut horses nickered and turned around the makeshift pathway, trotting in the opposite direction.

Dad turned to me and gave me an expectant nod. "And now we walk."

I weighed the load on my back and frowned. "How far?"

"A few miles, perhaps three at most. I was informed that the villagers would position a team that shall be looking out for our arrival."

"And when might we be running into them?" I asked. Dad cast me a look of annoyance.

"So-many-questions-Blaine." He scolded me again, handing over Pavarotti's rope. "About midway, if the Lord has smiled upon us. Here, you take him. He is your horse, not mine."

I fingered the coarse rope, taking comfort in its rough, familiar texture. I did my best to make my dad proud, but it was inevitable that I would end up doing something incorrectly and receive criticism for it. He was not a man that was easy to please-at least towards his son, anyway. Pavarotti nuzzled my side playfully, searching for any hidden treats I might have tucked away. I ran my free hand over his ivory mane and stared directly ahead. The trees seemed to stretch into oblivion, twisting and turning at unexpected places. The air was cool and brittle, our breath forming small, smokey clouds as we walked.

And walked. And walked.

_Kurt_

The arrival of Father Anderson was on everyone's tongue. The two strangers had quickly become the topic of every conversation. The women whispered among their sewing, the men laughed while pushing wheelbarrows of wood and skinning meat for the smokestacks. But nothing was more spoken about than the Father's son. A flurry of questions arose about him.

How old was he?

Was he handsome?

Was he intelligent?

Had he, like his Father, killed werewolves before?

The girls especially giggled over the prospect of a mysterious boy and came up with theories about his past while sewing and washing. Naturally, I was present and involved in the conversation. Anything to distract me from the monotonous work I was doing.

"I bet he's tall," a girl named Quinn said, "with a dark and brooding past." Rachel, the brunette who was attempting to braid Quinn's short blonde hair, scoffed.

"I bet he's short," she countered, "with poor eyesight and a boring lifestyle."

The group laughed as Quinn smacked Rachel's hand away with mock irritation. Or perhaps it was real, as she and Rachel had both taken interest in Finn, and that had formed a love-and-hate relationship between the two girls. Meanwhile, Finn refused to choose who he liked more and instead milked the attention. It irritated me to no extent.

"Do you think he's wealthy?" Tina asked, folding her completed shirt and setting it aside.

"Probably." Santana replied. She and her parents had traveled from a colony in the south a few years ago, and she had a very distinctive appearance, with her russet skin and shiny black hair. She was beautiful, and caught the eye of every man who saw her. Every man, except for me.

"What makes you say that?" Mercedes spoke up, a frown crossing her ebony face.

Santana turned towards her and shot her a look. "He's the son of a high priest. That doesn't especially hint at being poor..."

"Well, yes. But still. How do we really know that he-"

"Doesn't matter. He's probably a spoiled brat who drinks himself happy and takes a different woman to bed with him every night." I griped, tossing a soiled blanket into my pail and scrubbing it furiously.

My comment was met with collective silence. I glanced up at the four pairs of surprised eyes staring back at me.

"What?"

Mercedes sat down next to me and pulled the pail away. "What's wrong?"

"I just...nothing. And everything. I don't know..." I had not told her about Finn and I's altercation from the night before. It had made me very sour towards the thought of the Father coming to our village and I had finally allowed myself to express my agitation.

"Kurt..." Mercedes squeezed my hand, concern creasing her brow.

"Just...the sooner they come and kill that monster the better."

"Don't we all think so." Rachel replied, resuming her braiding of Quinn's hair. The girls mumbled in agreement and redirected their attention to work and their chattering.

Uninterested in the conversation, I grabbed my pail and politely excused myself, claiming that I had neglected a prior engagement with Carole. I exited the hut and quivered at the sudden change of temperature.

"Rather cold, shouldn't you stay inside with the rest of the ladies?" A jeering voice called out to me. I did not need to look up to see who the owner was.

"I'm free to go where I want, David." I replied, keeping my voice calm. "But thanks for your concern for my health."

The larger boy frowned and set down the barrel he had been carrying over his shoulder. "Like I'd care if you caught a cold. It'd be great, actually. Get you out of my way for a while-where you going?" I had turned away and continued walking, despite his throwing insults. He reached out and clutched onto my wrist, turning me back around to face him.

"I wasn't finished with you, Hummel." he growled.

I wrenched my arm out of his grip, my hand snapping back and hitting him in the face. "Don't you touch me. We're done here, David."

He glowered down at me, rubbing the side of his face that I had unintentionally slapped. I simply returned the glare. Finally, he backed away and picked up the barrel. "No, we're not." he said, and lumbered away. The air seemed to grow colder at his words. This winter was one of the most bitter that we had ever been faced with. The air bit eagerly at my exposed skin, flushing it pink, as I numbly continued walking through the village towards Miss Emma's house. The previous night, I had laid awake while debating the idea of actually speaking to the prophetess about my unusual dreams. I had come to the conclusion that, no, it would not hurt to seek advice and therefore found myself standing outside of her house, gingerly knocking on her door.

"Come in, my dear." Miss Emma's muffled voice replied from inside the house. I entered without any further hesitation. Warm air welcomed me, soothing my chilled face and hands.

I had a deep indeclarable love for Miss Emma's house. It was so intricately eccentric in comparison to the rest of the buildings in my village. The long flames of candles flickered all about the room, illuminating the many decorations that dwelled within the house. Large orange and purple strips of satiny material stretched across the ceiling, draping themselves over shelves full of spices and wrapping around the wooden support beam at the center of the building in a kind of embrace. Strange, curious objects littered the tables and shelves and walls; charms, bottles filled with unknown liquids, a large chest set in the corner, sticks of burning incense that threatened to cause anyone who drew near to them to sneeze, spheres made of different colors of glass that twinkled in the light of the candles, and so many more treasures to tease the eye. There were no chairs, and instead small pillows were scattered across the floor, upon one of which Miss Emma sat, a book held in her hands daintily, with her eyes lowered to the contents on the pages. I shut the door and she glanced up, smiling.

"Hello, Kurt." her voice was soft and reminded me sweetly of honey; and I relaxed at the sound of it, temporarily forgetting my run-in with David.

"Good morning, Miss Emma," I replied, bending down to unlace my boots like any good houseguest would.

"And to what occasion do I owe the pleasure of your company?" she asked, shutting her book without saving her place. "Oh, do help yourself to some tea, 'tis quite freezing out there."

"Thank you," I responded graciously, setting my boots outside the door. Then I walked over to the kettle and poured some of the contents into a small cup, trying to ignore the unpleasant green color of the tea. Miss Emma beckoned for me to take a seat on the pillow across from her. After making sure I was seated with a warm beverage in my hands, she folded her hands and peered up at me curiously.

"So, why was it that you came here? I did not hear your response."

I did not bother explaining to her that I had not, in fact, told her why I was visiting in the first place. Pausing to take a sip from my cup, I nearly gagged at the bitter taste the tea left on my tongue. Miss Emma giggled, noticing my disgruntled reaction.

"It's rabbitweed," she said. I nodded, not having any sort of recollection of what rabbitweed even was, and politely took another drink.

"Miss Emma," I began, swallowing down the unpleasant flavor, "I wanted to talk to you about these dreams I have been having."

Miss Emma perked up and leaned closer. "Do explain."

And so I did, describing my desperate running through the endless forest and climbing the topless mountain. She watched me intently as I spoke, her eyes flickering with intrigue. After I finished, she closed her large brown eyes and was quiet. I awaited her answer, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as more time passed without her uttering a word.

"Give me your hand, Kurt." Miss Emma said suddenly. I jumped, nearly spilling my tea.

"What?"

"Give me your hand," she repeated, her eyes remaining closed.

Carefully, I placed my tea to the side and held out my hand to her.

"The left one."

I frowned, wondering how she knew that I had put out my right. I switched hands and instead held out my left, palm facing upwards. Miss Emma then took my hand in hers. She ran her thumbs along my palm and down each of my fingers slowly, thoughtfully. My fingers curled upwards to her featherlike touch, one by one, until my hand had formed what almost looked like a claw.

"Oh, my dear." Miss Emma said in a dreamy voice, and opened her eyes. "You are very difficult to read." She spread my fingers out flat once more and grasped a candle, pulling it towards her. She closed her eyes again and started to whisper what sounded like a incantation.

_"Obsecro te, Spatio propinquitatis_

_spiritus vitae Omnes uectigal, _

_quantum ego tibi, Lucet lux ignota." *_

I did not understand what it was she was saying, as she spoke in a language I was not familiar with. The flame of the candle danced furiously. It almost appeared to stretch before us, the fire becoming brighter, more elongated. The room had grown warmer, as sweat begun to form on the back of my neck and I fought the immediate urge to wipe it away. Then, as quickly as it had grown, the candle was extinguished by some unknown force.

"Ah!" Miss Emma's eyes flew open and she squeezed my hand tightly.

"What? What is it?" I asked, beginning to panic.

"It is so clear...yes, it is." Miss Emma traced her finger across the bottom of my first finger and trailed it to the knuckle directly below my pinkie.

"The love line," she said, "foretells what romance has come or is to come. However, I have never seen a line that looked this way. See how it trails off to connect to the bottom of Mercury?-That is your smallest finger, right there."

"So... is there any romance to come?" I asked, not attempting to hold back the hopefulness in my voice. Miss Emma frowned.

"I cannot tell from this line. It is so unusual."

My heart fell, as did what had begun to be a smile across my lips. "Oh."

The prophetess began to trace a second line, starting from the area between my first finger and thumb, to my hand's side.

"Your head line indicates knowledge and success of the individual. You are quite an intelligent boy, Kurt. However..." Miss Emma squinted her eyes at my palm, retracing the line "you secretly yearn to leave this village and discover what else there is to be known in the world. Perhaps this is what your dream is about, your wanting to escape."

I nodded. "That is very true. But do you not wish to travel as well?"

Miss Emma did not reply, but instead traced her finger in a curve, starting from the same place as before, and ending at the heel of my hand.

"Your life line," she explained, her voice fluttering uneasily, "is severed in two." She paused, gazing back at me to see my reaction. Met with a puzzled expression, Miss Emma squeezed my hand again, appearing concerned. "A severed life line declares death to whoever it adorns, Kurt. It splits about here," she pointed to the shorter half of the line. "And then continues down here." She now pointed at the longer half. "This represents what time you have left in this world. And judging by your line, there is not much awaiting."

My hand was shaking as I opened my mouth to speak. "And that means..."

"It means you are in danger, Kurt."

My eyes widened as I withdrew my hand quickly, clutching it to my chest in horror. Miss Emma looked back at me empathically.

"So what, I'm going to die soon? Just like that?" I sputtered, forsaking my manners and rising to my feet.

"That could very well be true. It is wise to say that you may be the wolf's next victim."

I stared back at the woman, looking so innocent and youthful with her smooth skin and slightly curled red hair, with incredulousness. How on earth could she predict someone's death and yet maintain such a calm disposition? What sane person could do such a thing? It occurred to me that it was quite possible Miss Emma was not completely well in the head, what with her passion for connecting with the unknown and unorthodox methods of living.

But the knowledge that my demise was nigh proved so morbid that I could not keep my anger for her and instead felt an unconditional surge of desperation.

"N-no! Miss Emma, please-"

Without warning she was on her feet, cupping my face in her small, delicate hands. Her eyes screamed for me to quiet myself as she tried to console me in my state of hysteria.

"Kurt! Kurt-stop. You must listen to me. You must listen carefully!"

She shook me to emphasize her point. I tried to calm my breathing, but in vain, as gasps continued to escape from my lips.

"Kurt, there are ways to prevent this from occurring!"

"H-how? It's fate, isn't it?"

"Ah," Miss Emma confirmed, her hands returning to my face, "but even the human power can control outcomes to a certain extent. Come."

She took hold of my arm, not different to how David had grabbed me, and lead me to the back of her house. The large oak chest in the far corner was thrown open brusquely, and Miss Emma reached in and grasped what was inside, looking at me over her shoulder.

"Here," she said, "take this."

From the chest she then produced a long piece of fabric. It was a shade of deep scarlet, reminding me of the intense color of blood. The edge was trimmed in a faded bronze, which wrapped around the area of the fabric completely. The stunning appearance of the material was nothing short of astounding.

"This cloak," Miss Emma said, "was given to me by my mother. She herself had received it from her own mother when she was about seventeen winters aged. Just a bit younger that you are, if I am correct."

She unfolded the cloak and let it fall open. It cascaded down to the floor, bunching up around her feet because of her petite figure. I reached out and stroked it with my fingertips. It was smooth and cool to the touch, like fine silk, and clung to my skin.

"It's...it's beautiful. But how does it relate to-"

"It is supposed to ward off evil intenders. The seam is filled with heather, which has been said to protect. Wear it during the rising of the next full moon. It should fit just fine."

I took the cloak in my hands and was surprised by the weight such thin fabric could have.

"And it will sanction me from death?" I breathed, holding the article close, as if it was the physical form of my life.

Miss Emma's voice was grave. "Let us hope so, my dear."

A loud rapping at the door caused both of us to turn our heads. "Yes? Who calls?" Miss Emma asked, closing the chest and approaching the door cautiously.

"Just me," the visitor replied. Miss Emma's eyes brightened, and she quickly pulled open the door to greet her visitor.

"Will!"

The tall, curly-haired man accepted her embrace gladly. The top of Miss Emma's head only reached up to Will's chin as they hugged, augmenting the woman's shortness. Will was as close to a governor as our village had, though his position was quite temporary and he could easily be replaced if another eligible candidate crossed his path. But a kindhearted, responsible governor he was, even if unmarried and without children. It was obvious that he and Miss Emma were well fond of each other. In fact, many people in the village whispered that they were actually secret lovers.

Miss Emma shined as they pulled away, grinning at one another widely.

"But I though you went out to greet the Father? Unless..."

Will nodded, his smile broadening.

"The Father and his son," he declared, sweeping his arm towards the center of village, "have arrived."

Miss Emma clapped exuberantly and pranced outside, as if she had not foretold my death just a few moments ago.

Picking up my boots, I sucked in a deep breath, and followed the adults outside to, unbeknownst to me, meet my fate.

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><p>*I implore thee,<p>

Kindred spirits filling the space

All respects I tribute to thee

Shine light on the unknown.

**Please review and spread the love! :)**

**Also, I tried my best to be accurate with Miss Emma's palmestry. Most of my knowledge came from various websites. Hurrrr.**


	4. Two Strangers

**A/N: This chapter was supposed to have been posted four days ago. However, I sent my iPod to Chicago (I write my chapters in the notes so that I can have the fics on me at all times) in order for it to get its screen fixed and the tech people "severely damaged" (aka they broke the whole device) it while removing the glass. Perfect.  
>I'll try to get some more writing done and shoveled out to you guys over the two-week period of freedom which is Christmas break. But for now, here you go!<strong>

**~ Ceecee  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>Blaine<em>

My first impression of the unnamed village was a foreboding picketed fence. Long sections of wood had been stuck firmly into the icy ground, sharpened at the tip so that they resembled stakes, and lined a border around the entrance of the village. I swallowed, unable to shake the vision of seeing something impaled upon one of the fence posts, and tightened my hold on Pavarotti's lead.

My dad had been right: a group of three men had indeed met us halfway through our journey, greeting us with enthused smiles, ready horses and waves. And for some, looks of respect...or maybe it was fear. Lately, I'd found myself having trouble differentiating between the two. The youngest-looking of the men introduced himself as William (I go by Will to most), and his companions nodded in acknowledgment, stating their own names (Burt and Erik). They then had proceeded to bow their heads to dad and removed the yokes from our backs. I graciously handed my packs over to the man who had called himself Burt, but refrained when he offered to take Pavarotti. He looked bewildered, and I hastily explained that, I wouldn't be much if a man if I did not carry some weight. In utmost reality, I just had no desire in allowing a stranger to take my only valued belonging from me. It was childish behavior like this that my dad disapproved of. The rest of the journey went by fairly quickly. We kept a steady pace and did not once stop, though the villagers were eager to point things out and share their tales about the forest. I had tried my best to listen, but eventually my focus strayed from the conversation. My feet were aching keenly by the time we had reached the gate.

"Here is our home!" Will's voice rang out as he threw his arms up in the air ebulliently. I peered out from behind Burt, trying to get a clear view of the village, most of which was obscured by more pine trees. Dad seemed to have the same concern and glanced over at Will with a puzzled expression. The other man didn't observe this and instead beckoned us closer to the fence, with the explanation of, "Stay close, now."

Through the border of trees appeared shapes of what began to look like buildings. As we drew nearer, the abstract forms became more defined, and I saw that the buildings were actually houses. They seemed very simple, yet the natural variation of the wood made the architecture out to be almost intricate, the twists and knotting giving each structure its own defined character. I found that they were much quainter than those I had seen in other villages, as well. The rooftops were thatched and, like the ground, powdered with frost, which stiffened every limp sprig so that they stuck out dramatically. Sun fell onto the ice, making it sparkle with a sugary texture. Each house was boosted off the ground with wide supportive beams, and shoddy ladders granted access to rickety porches, which now creaked under the weight of wonder-struck spectators who had left the safety of their homes to watch our party's arrival.

I fought to ignore their prying gazes as we passed them, though I could not help but feel naked to their undisguised scrutiny. More and more people piled out of houses to look; some had even begun to descend to the ground and follow behind us at a distance. It was mainly young women and mothers clutching onto their squirming children, though a few youthful boys and elderly men were scattered in the group, as well. I assumed that the men were off working, judging by the lack thereof.

Will stopped us at the center of the village, by what appeared to be a hole circled with stacked rocks, and turned to nod at Burt, who faced us and smiled wordlessly. People began to gather behind us, whispering vicariously. Children tugged skirts and babies cooed in their mothers' arms. Will ran towards a smaller house, skipping up the stairs, almost comically, and rapped upon the door. I could not hear the response from the owner, but he must have been on good terms with them as the door was immediate to open. A short, ginger-haired woman greeted him fondly, hugging him and speaking rapidly, causing Will to chuckle. He then walked down the stairs, offering a hand to the woman to lead her down. I wondered if they were married. This theory was diminished once the couple drew near and I saw that neither had a ringed finger.

"Father Anderson, I would like to introduce you formally to Miss Emma," Will touched the woman's forearm slightly as he spoke her name, "who is our village's herbalist." The woman—Miss Emma-softly murmured "Father..." and bowed her head respectively towards my dad.

Dad bowed his head in response. "Most pleased," he replied cordially.

Will released his hold on Emma's arm and faced the crowd, motioning towards my dad. "I present to you all, the most hallowed and noble Father Anderson." The crowd revered him in silent awe. "He has traveled from afar, at our request, to help us defeat the monster which torments our home." A few people mustered up the courage to applaud at this statement.

A movement from behind Will caught my eye and I turned my gaze back in the direction of the house he and Miss Emma had ventured from, just as a lithe figure appeared within the entrance. The figure, which belonged to that of a boy, closed the door behind it and folded a large sheet of startlingly red fabric in half, hanging it on the railing of the porch. The boy seemed disinterested in the fanfare that was occurring, then bent down and proceeded to lace up his boots, threading the strings with deft, deliberate jerks of his hands. I continued to watch him, strangely hypnotized by the movement of his hands. Perhaps it was delirium that caused such fascination. The boy paused his lacing and ran a hand through his chestnut hair, pursing his mouth thoughtfully.

"...fortunate to have such holy man here in our humble village." Will continued to praise my dad earnestly. The boy's head snapped up at the sound of the voice. His eyes scanned over Will, who was shamelessly preaching about my dad's greatness, then Miss Emma, who hovered by Will's side, then the crowd, which was pushing tighter around us, then my dad, who stood completely still while surveying the scene and partially listening to Will's chatter...and then, his gaze finally landed on me. His piercing beryl eyes met mine and I stifled a gasp.

For boy was beautiful, more beautiful than I had ever thought a man could be. His skin was as fair as the finest cream, his cheeks and the tip of his nose already tinted a faint pink from the cold. I had seen few people with skin so light that had not been dusted with powder to make it so. His lips were supple, though not too feminine, and currently shaped into a dormant frown. I wondered what it would take to see this beautiful man smile. And whatever it was, right then, I swore I would do it.

_Kurt_

The Father had indeed arrived, accompanied by half of our village. Will had guided him to the village center and now stood with Miss Emma by the well, talking to the gray-haired man I assumed was Father Anderson while many of the people in our village looked on. My father stood among them; a large, unfamiliar pack was thrown over his shoulder. Mercedes and the rest of the girls stood grouped together in the crowd, looking positively giddy at the sight of our new company. However, none of these people caught my attention quite as entirely as the raven-haired, boy with the olive skin, whose gaze had captured mine so intensely. His clothes were mussed, I supposed from travel, and unlike those of the Fathers', who stood beside him, dressed cleanly and formal to a median. His face held evidence of shaving neglect, and the curls atop his head were tight and somewhat unruly. But, despite the rugged qualities of his appearance, he was incontrovertibly handsome. Unable to tear my eyes away from this Romanesque stranger, I numbly jumped down from the porch, forgetting my cloak, and began to walk towards the crowd, interested in learning more about who exactly this boy was. No one paid heed to my approach, as they were much too preoccupied watching Will. Instead of walking up to the boy, which would have granted me unwanted attention from the crowd, I veered to the right and joined the girls who stood gawking openly at the two visitors. Mercedes grabbed my arm, eyes twinkling with rapture. "He's simply gorgeous, isn't he?" she whispered, with a ridiculous grin on her face.

"Who?" I replied dimly, though I knew exactly who.

Mercedes' smile grew wider. "The Father's son."

I stared back at her, unresponsively, before trailing my eyes back over to the boy. His gaze had returned to Will. I secretly wished it had remained on me.

"That is Father Anderson's-" Shame washed over me as I recalled the scathing comment I have made towards him earlier that morn. He certainly did not look like the fornicating drunk I had described.

"Come now, William." Father Anderson interrupted Will's speech with the raising of a single hand. I stared at the ring her wore—a solid silver crucifix that reached the length of half his first finger—as it caught the sunlight. Will silenced himself instantly. The boy's eyes flickered back to the Father, and he regarded him with a mix of pride and pudding contempt. Taken aback, I wondered how it was that a son came to have such conflicting feelings for his father, and silently prayed I would not develop them towards my own.

"Your compliments are very kind. However, I am not the main focus of this rally. The focus,' Father Anderson's eyes wandered throughout the crowd, "is you. And your salvation.

"Let it be known to you that this is not the first village to fall target to attacks. Indeed, many others have suffered from werewolves, and many shall continue to, long after this particular beast is slain. It is unfortunate, but true. As longs as the Lord reigns above us, so there is a Devil, he who allows his demonic lupin brethren to roam our world. As simple as it would be to declare that only the Highest Power," here he stroked his ring, "can save your soul, I regret to admit that that is not entirely the case. It is more complicated than that! It is not enough for a man to wear a cross and speak words of the hold tongue, for any man can do this. A man must have the ability to drive a weapon through the body of another individual, without hesitation, when time calls for him to do so. Ah, I do sense your confusion at that. You must keep in mind that werewolves, although evil, possess such an amount of conscience that they are, indeed, human to a degree. When a werewolf is killed in wolf state, it revert backs to its basic form, which is human. I discovered this through countless experiences, some of which have brought me me great anguish and sorrow. Long ago, my own village was victim to a werewolf. We lost man because of it, I a wife and Blaine," he motioned toward the boy, who glanced up at the mention of his name, "his mother. I swore that I would avenge my wife's death, and so I did, killing ther monster during the waning moon while it was weakest. It was not an easy feat to accomplish, and if it were not for the fact that the werewolf had killed first, I certainly would have been damned for my actions."

"Wait—sorry, my apologies, Father." Will spoke suddenly. Father Anderson nodded for him to continue. "Did you say you killed the wolf on a waning moon?"

"That I did."

"But I though you said you discovered that wolves become human when killed?"

"Both are correct."

Will scratched his head. "But…It is to my understanding that wolves only transform during a full moon."

"Myth." Father Anderson said this with no hint of inquiry in his voice. "Werewolves are strongest during the full moon, that is true. However, they transform three times within a cycle. At new moon, they are at their weakest point, and cannot transform from human state at all. They gather strength during the waxing moon and grow weak with the waning moon."

"Impossible!" One of the elderly men in the crowd, Old Jenson, who himself had no affinity for religion, burst out. "We have only been attacked during full moons! If the wolf did transform at other times, why then has he not struck during then as well?"

Father Anderson turned towards him, looking placid. "You have been lucky. The wolf must be weaker, younger."

"Younger?" The workers had deserted their work in the Forest and had begun to join the crowd. One of the younger men, Sam, had spoken. His eyes landed on me as he did so, and we exchanged a brief smile.

"Have you not figured it out?" The Father asked, remaining nonchalant. "Where do you suppose the wolf dwells? It has human needs just as much as you or I, and civilization is far yonder. The wolf lives here, within this very village."

There was a collective gasp from the crowd, and suddenly all eyes were darting back and forth among the villagers, fear gripping the peoples' hearts and flashing across their faces. Mercedes moved closer to me, clinging to my side. The poor girl trembled, and I knew not from the chill in the air. I twined my fingers though hers in a vain attempt to console her. Feeling breath against my neck, I turned my head to look at Quinn, who whimpered, gazing back at me anxiously. Her hand I took gentle hold of as well, though I nearly released her as she squeezed my hand firmly, causing me pain, which I did not announce.

"But do not be so grave." Father Anderson asserted, his tone having frown much lighter. "Tonight we shall not be filled with dread. Allow yourself to throw such worries aside. Tonight, we celebrate you, and we celebrate this village. And your freedom, which is soon to be."

To my amazement, everyone appeared to agree unanimously with the Father's statement, and the crowd began to disperse. Will shared a few more words with Father Anderson before slipping his hand around Miss Emma's back and leading her away. My father approached Father Anderson and the two men began to speak. I faintly overheard the words 'son', 'living quarters' and 'my wife', before my attention was stolen by Sam's voice whispering in my ear.

"Celebrate? Hardly. He's insane, that man." Quinn dropped my hand and, casting Sam a look of pure antagonism, followed the girls back to their hut.

"Possibly. Just a little." I replied, taking in Sam's viridian eyes and shaggy hair, which, in the most endearing way, resembled the shade of dampened sand. Sam had come from a colony in the North a few winters back and we had quickly become close companions. He was a charming young man, the kind who tended to be rather awkward in the presence of female company. But his eyes were bright, and his smile welcoming, and because of this, most girls easily dismissed his lack of suave behavior.

"How've you been? We never see your face these days." Sam look concerned.

"I've been alright. Could be better, you know? And sorry for not wanting to cleave wood in half in the snow." I reached up and tousled Sam's hair blithely

"Hey! Behave." A smile tugged at the edge of the other boy's mouth as he pushed my hand away and attempted to flatten his hair.

"And if I don't?" I grinned, challenging him. He seemed to think this over for a moment.

"Then I will come up with something to threaten you with." I snorted.

"SAM! Get over here!" Another one of the boys, Noah, called out to my friend, brandishing an axe pointedly. Finn ran up behind him and threw water over his head, laughing maniacally as Noah chased after him, still holding the axe. Sam shook his head at them and picked up his pile of wood.

"I should go before Noah kills your brother. Save a dance for me later, yeah?"

He winked at me mirthfully and waved goodbye. My eyes followed him as he fell in step with the men who were returning to their work in the Forest, and I frowned as Sam clapped David on the back, receiving a headlock from the larger boy in return.

"Kurt." My father called to me, touching my shoulder. I slowly turned to look at him, prepared to be scolded for not paying attention. "Kurt, find Carole and let her know that we need to get the gin out. Quickly, now."

"Yes, father." I said softly. Behind him, the raven-haired boy's stare had fallen upon me once more, his eyes glinting with intrigue. I opened my mouth, wanting more than anything to just say something, anything to him. Instead, I turned on my heel, heading off in the direction of our house to inform Carole of the news, like a proper, obedient child. As I left the trio of men at the well and sought to find my stepmother, my thoughts could not help but linger on the memory of the mysterious boy's hazel gaze. No, not just a mysterious boy. The Father's son.

Blaine.

It was a different name, unlike any I had heard uttered before. It felt strange on my tongue as I spoke it, though very quietly, to myself. And yet, as I repeated the name in my mind, it seemed to grow increasingly familiar, almost comforting even. _Blaine._

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and set off to prepare for the celebration. It wasn't until I had reached home that I peered back over my shoulder and came to realize I had left the cloak hanging on the rail-a bloody soldier splayed out among the silver frost.

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><p><strong>Since I'll be in the Aloha state on the 25th, I wish you all good tidings and a Merry Early Christmas! (Or whatever else you may celebrate!)<strong>


	5. Man Down

**A/N: This took me much longer to write than I had promised...sorry guys!**

**Buuuut, I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season-I know I did! Hawaii was simply gorgeous :)**

**Enjoy this chapter-hopefully the 6,000 words make up for my lack of posting! Yes? No? Okay...**

**~Ceecee**

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><p><em>Kurt<em>

Celebrations were a very rare occurrence for my village. But, when thrown, they were a marvel to behold. Any sort of party brought with it countless promises-late nights, music and dancing, surplus food and flowing ale.

And for a few, a time to throw away all cautions and act upon those urges kept so undisclosed. And, to declare the obvious, urges constituted sex. It was perfectly normal for one or more of our women to become with child a month or so after a celebration took place. People did not care; they simply looked the other way. Quinn herself had given birth to a daughter in the spring a few years back. The father of the child had been Noah, though he was not courting Quinn at the time of her pregnancy. And the audacity that no one, not even Quinn's mother, batted an eyelash...

It is important for me to establish the fact that I was always the odd member. The pregnancies bothered me. I never did men's work. All my companions were women. Most of the time I had trouble even looking at myself. Not to mention, when it was that I did gaze at my reflection, I felt even less a man than before. Was it perhaps my large lashes or my lips that made me feel this way? I knew that my appearance was more on the feminine side than, say, Sam's. Or maybe, it was the blush that rose to my cheeks whenever I saw one of the older boys without a shirt on?

I was different, that much I was sure about. And people had begun to notice. Especially Finn and Mercedes, the latter being much more sensitive to my feelings than the former.

"We need to talk."

Though on occasion even Mercedes had her prying moments.

Balancing the crate of ale on my knee, I pushed the door of the shed open further, allowing my friend to enter-not that it was necessary, for she would have gladly let herself in, had I not responded.

"Look, Kurt, I've-" Mercedes took one look at the crate in my arms and shook her head. "Give me that. You're too skinny to be heaving around large loads." I wordlessly let her take the crate from me. She merely set it aside. Then she retrieved another-this crate was empty-and flipped it facedown, sitting herself down upon it. "Sit." She tapped the space next to her. Again, I followed her orders.

"What is it?"

"What is it? I'll tell you what it is." Mercedes smoothed her hands over her skirts and gave me a pointed look. "You."

I looked back at her blankly. "What about me?"

She sighed. "Everything. I've just noticed that you have been acting really strange lately."

"What? How so?" She had captured my full attention with this declaration, and I turned in my seat to face her completely.

"Well, let's count the ways, shall we?"

"'Cedes, that's not needed-"

"You won't eat. You're really irritable. You avoid everyone's questions." She counted these accusations on her fingers, "You've been working so much lately. Or when you're not working, you're always by yourself. There's something going on, Kurt. I know it."

I was quiet, turning my attention to a loose thread on my shirt. I had grown up with Mercedes, we got along well, perhaps she would not judge what I was about to say. I glanced back up at her, taking in her lovely dark skin, pouting lips and inquisitive eyes.

"I think there is something wrong with me."

Mercedes frowned, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

I tried again. "I'm not...normal."

"No, no, I got that. I figured that out the day I met you." She replied, rolling her eyes. "You refused to wear clothes if they were previously used or had patches sewn on them. My question is, how else are you not normal?"

"I...do not find myself attracted to women," Mercedes continued to watch me carefully as I spoke, "the way men are supposed to be."

"Elaborate, Lilly-Skin." She ordered, using my old nickname.

"I like...I think I'm attracted to..." I shook my head at the thought. It was wrong, so very wrong. And yet, the pull still beckoned to me, stronger now than it had ever been. It took everything in my human strength not to respond to its call. Because, if I did, nothing good would come of it. Then again, nothing good ever seemed to happen to me.

"Yes?" Mercedes prodded further. I swallowed, twisting my fingers nervously. How could I possibly tell her without her thinking I was a disgusting miscreant? Anything out of the norm in my village was immediately frowned upon. Even now, thanks to Finn, I was balancing on the border of being outcast by my own family. If people found out about who...about what I was...well, I was afraid to know the consequences that would follow.

A boy who was a winter younger than I, Artie, lost use of his legs at the age of eight after an accident with one of our horses. My father, the kindred spirit he was, had constructed a vehicle out of a wheelbarrow and additional lumber. It resembled a chair with four wheels than enabled movement. The contraption allowed for Artie to move about by using his arms and pushing on the wheels or having someone take hold of the wheelbarrow handles and push it for him. Despite this, people still treated Artie differently, merely because he himself was different. Did I want that? No, not at all.

"I like...men." My voice was low, and my lips trembled. I was not sure what I expected Mercedes' reaction to be. She could have recoiled in horror, she could have thrown angry, maybe even derogatory words into my face, and she could have even deserted me right then and there for all that I was aware of.

Silence followed.

As did a deep feeling of regret. As it settled into my sinking heart, I contemplated leaving the shed myself. Possibly even running into the Forest and never turning back. Maybe that is what that reoccurring dream was telling me: to leave.

"'Cedes..." I said, looking up at her, "'Cedes, please say something."

Mercedes looked thoughtful. "Are you...sure?"

"Yes. I am."

Her arms suddenly encircled my shoulders and she pulled me closer to her. "You know what? I honestly don't care. I don't care if you're attracted to animals, let alone guys. You're still Kurt to me," Mercedes said softly, running her fingers through my chestnut hair. "Nothing will change that; change how I feel about you. You're just...you're special." I grimaced at her word choice and her resonating laugh filled the shed. "I think you know what I meant by that."

I nodded. "Please...do not tell anyone. I am enough of a freak as is."

Mercedes smiled and kissed me on the cheek. "No, I already told you, you're special. But you're secret is safe with me, honey." Leaning my head up against her neck, I sighed in relief.

"Thank you for being so understanding."

"Of course. That's what friendship is about, isn't it?" Then Mercedes pulled away, giving me a stern look. "But don't think that's getting you out of dancing with me later tonight, got it?"

I allowed myself to laugh and hugged her tightly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Her expression softened again as she stood up, once again picking the carton of ale.

"Okay, now get your ass up and help me bring this Fool's Juice to your stepmother. You can take the lighter one."

I grinned at her sudden bossiness. That was the Mercedes I knew. Opening the door, I let her pass me before grabbing my own carton and following behind. People were scurrying back and forth throughout the village, heaving around tables and buckets, setting up lanterns, throwing flowers about...it was time to work. Mercedes and I hurried past some of the girls who were hovering over fragrant pots of boiling food. I greeted Rachel with a wink as I passed, and she returned the gesture with a smile. Turning back around, I found myself thrown backwards as I collided with something solid.

No, not something, as the surface had grunted, but someone. Bottles littered the ground, and I swore, quickly checking to see if any had broken. I was lucky, only one had retained a slight crack around the rim.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry." The other person fell to their knees and began gathering up bottles.

"It-it's fine." I grumbled, secretly cursing the individual before glancing up.

_Oh._

The Father's son was crouched beside me, his hands busy chasing after a bottle that was still rolling along the ground. In closer proximity, I could see that his hazel eyes were framed with dark lashes, and his now-furrowed eyebrows were unusually shaped, almost resembling triangles. He pursed his lips as he worked to undo the damage we had both caused, drawing attention to a scar on his chin-a long white scratch-something which I had failed to notice before. I wondered if it had been a childhood injury.

"Here,"

I snapped back to attention and realized that he was holding the bottles out to me, his smile sheepish.

It was a really nice smile.

"Thank you."

Blaine stood, rubbing his hands across the back of his neck.

"So, is this," he motioned to the hectic set up that was occurring, "ordinary?"

"Yeah. Celebrations tend to cause quite a...stir in this village. Are you...coming? To the celebration? It will be a lot of fun," I added, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes.

"It depends," he replied, "will there be dancing involved?" I nodded, and he grinned. "Then I will be there."

Placing the bottles back haphazardly into the crate, I gave him a brief smile. "Well, I hope you enjoy it."

As if on cue, Mercedes managed to link her arm through mine while still gripping her own crate. "Sorry, I need to steal him." She flashed Blaine a classic Mercedes smile and pulled me away from the scene, back towards my house. "Now he," she declared, once we were out of earshot, "Is a prime example of delicious."

"'_Cedes_!" I hissed, elbowing her.

She rolled her eyes. "Like you don't agree with me."

I decided it was best not to reply.

_Blaine_

"They are waiting, Blaine."

I kept my eyes trained on the blade I was sharpening, not offering up a response to my dad's warning. Tilting the knife towards the lamp to examine my progress, I merely nodded. Just a few more strokes and it would be finished….

"Blaine!" An edge had grown in dad's voice and I sighed, taking my eyes off of my work.

"Yes?"

"Put down the blade." Dad said, slowly. "Leave this house. Go find a pretty girl to dance with. Those are my orders. Follow them."

I rolled my eyes. "You should know that you are mad. Insane. Wrong in the head. Evil. You're just as much of a murderer as the monster we've been sent to kill."

Dad knocked the knife from my hand in agitation. "GO."

"How can you put those people in danger like this? You are aware that the moon is nearly full, aren't you? That the wolf could strike tonight? That innocent blood could be spilt tonight? Blood that, if shed, will be on your hands? Does that book," I pointed at the tattered, leather-bound bible that rested on the table beside me, "not state that 'thou shall not kill'?"

"Enough, Blaine."

"DOES IT NOT?"

"BLAINE. That. Is. Enough." Dad said stiffly, his teeth gritted. "The sooner we can confront the wolf, the better. That is how it is, that is how it has always been. If one or two people die, well, that is a sacrifice we must make. You are just as aware of this as I."

"That does not mean I agree with you."

Dad did not answer. "The night will continue as planned. Do your part, and I shall do mine." He turned away, unrolling a piece of parchment and beginning to study it. I stared back at him in disbelief, reminded why I hated him so much.

"Fine." The word felt bitter on my tongue as I ruefully spat it out, seizing the blade from the ground and tucking it into my shoe for safekeeping. Then I pushed open the door, leaving my rather unholy father alone with his sheet of moldy paper.

The celebration had already begun.

Torches burned into the night air. Drums thundered in my ears. A heavy musk had settled in the air, the smoky aroma of embers mixed profusely with the scent of ale, perfume, food, and a trace of sweat. All around me, people were talking, dancing, and eating. It was interesting, seeing the villagers so celebratory and animated. So much unlike their shocked stares and frozen bodies from earlier. It is amazing, the effect a sip of drink here and a sway of hip there can have on human behavior. Little paid me attention while I surveyed the scene. I was just another person in the crowd.

"Hey! Blaine, right?"

I turned in the direction from which the voice had called me and found myself face-to-face with a remarkably attractive, russet-skinned girl.

"Good to know that you're not so immersed in loving Jesus that you can't comprehend human speech." She smirked, tossing her glossy black hair behind her shoulder. "Here's a small note for you to take: if you're going to be at a celebration, you gotta dance. No exceptions. Luckily, you have me looking out of you." Her eyes glinted mischievously. "I'm Santana. Remember that name."

I opened my mouth to speak, but Santana held up a finger, demanding my silence once more. "Don't even try to make schmaltzy small talk with me, holy boy. Just take my hand, and dance with me." She thrust out her hand to me expectantly.

I was trying to formulate a way to politely decline when a particularly drunken person behind me stumbled back, knocking me against the forward girl.

Santana's smile grew slyer. "Now you're getting the idea."

"Oh, no. I'm s-sorr-" I tried to sputter out an apology, despite the fact that Santana's hands were gradually sliding their way up my chest.

"The closer, the better. Now, I'm assuming you don't know this dance, right?"

Her lack of modesty was astounding.

"I-no, I don't."

"Ah," Santana patted my chest, which I deduced was her way of showing me assurance. "It's fairly simple. First I'll start by taking a step forward," This she managed to do in our close proximity, leaning closer. I instinctively leaned away, suddenly worried she might try to kiss me.

"Good, that's your move. Try to put some shimmy into your shoulders a little bit, be passionate. Now, I step and lean back while you step forward...good, good. We repeat that again, and then step back, placing and hand in the middle, and circle each other-"

"Circle each other?" I could not help but wonder if, instead of a dance, we were performing some sort of mating ritual.

Santana rolled her eyes. "Just go with it."

_Kurt_

The beat of the drums pounded into my brain, resonating through my chest, as Mercedes and I danced among a sea of euphoric adolescents. Everywhere you turned, there were people. I had not known the village had so many people...

Perspiration had begun to form on my brow from our constant movement, and the blur of dancing bodies left my head spinning precariously. And still, it felt like more and more people were pressing against us, choking out the air like weeds choked the grass.

The ale had not been a good idea. I was not sure why I had thought the ale would be a good idea.

"I need to get out." I shouted over the music, grabbing Mercedes' hand and pulling her urgently. "I-I need to...out."

Brilliant white auras tainted my vision. I blinked, trying to evade them, and they seemed to multiply and spread, worsening my eyesight. "'C-Cedes..."

Mercedes glanced at my face and her eyes widened. "Oh god you're so white. Go. Go before you get sick."

I nodded, trying to weave through the crowd, stumbling into several people, and accidentally shoving another boy into the girl he had been talking to. Once I had fought my way out of the mass, I sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. Breathing it out slowly, I became aware that my throat was burning eminently from thirst. Attempting to clear my perception, I searched for where the nearest water source was located. My heart sank as I realized that the well was located back in the center of the mob from which I had just managed to escape.

A wave of dizziness hit me abruptly, and I blindly made my way towards the small barn near the back of the village. There were troughs there, and though the prospect of drinking water that might have been shared by a pig or horse caused my stomach to lurch, I knew that getting water into my body was paramount.

As I staggered through the doorway of the vast building, I was greeted by the smell of damp hay. Not waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I groped my way along the wall, feeling for the edge of the trough. I touched something rope-like that felt like a bridle, a smooth, cold surface of what was most likely a bucket, an empty lantern...but no trough.

Frowning, I turned to inspect the other wall. Maybe my memory was wrong?

"Hello."

"SHIT!" I swore, tripping over my feet and spinning around, frantically trying to see the other person in the barn.

"Damn. I've never heard you swear like that before," the voice chuckled, "Up here, handsome."

A tow-headed boy peered down at me from the storage loft, an amused grin plastered on his face. "Did I scare you?" His words were moderately slurred. He'd paid the bottles a few visits as well.

"'Did you scare me?' Yes you fucking scared me!"

Sam laughed as foul language continued to escape my mouth. I placed my hand over my palpitating heart. It felt as if it was one beat away from bursting forth from my chest. "What were you even doing up there?"

Sam's laughter trailed off and he stared down at me with a newly sobered expression. "Needed to just get away from the crowd. Too many people, y'know?"

"And why didn't you just go to your house?"

"Well, obviously I wanted to get away from people. Doncha think my house is where people would most expect to find me?" He gave me an expression that caused me to suddenly feel like I was the dimmest person he had ever met.

I just nodded. Sam swung his legs over the ledge of the loft, inching himself forward. "Anyway," he pushed himself off the ledge, landing a few feet in front of me, surprisingly agile given his state. "I could ask the same for you. What brings you to the barn of mysteries?"

I shrugged. "Same reason, more or less." Then, a sudden wave a nausea hit me, and I gasped, clapping a hand over my mouth. Reeling, I forced my trembling legs to sit down in the hay.

"Kurt?" The hay sank under us as I felt Sam kneel down beside me. "Kurt, you okay?"

"N-nugh..." I tried to reply but found myself unable to form a sentence. Sam's hands were on me then, one clutching my arm nervously and the other resting against my back in an attempt to comfort me.

"What's wrong?"

"A-ale..." I grumbled, squeezing my eyes shut and breathing out slowly. The world was spiraling, as if I had become one of those wooden dradels that we had played with when we were young, gripping the handle between our fingertips and twisting it furiously. My throat ached, supper threatening to make an unwanted reappearance.

"Maybe...maybe you should just...lie down." He offered, rubbing circles into my shoulder blade with his thumb. His hands were rough from work in the Forest, but his coarse fingers felt strangely soothing over my heated skin.

"I'll be f-fine." I stammered, pressing my fingers against my throbbing temples. "Just...give me a moment. I'll be fine."

The barn screamed with silence. I could hear Sam breathing, soft and level, as he continued to hover at my side, his fingers tracing across my back.

I had never experienced such anguish from ale before. I had not even helped myself to very much, either. Yet there I sat, cradling my head in my hands, trying to calm the violent twisting of my stomach while my friend sat, unable to help me, and observed it all. Slowly, very slowly, the dizziness eventually subsided. I sighed in relief as the thudding from within my skull began to fade away, like the fog that settles and evaporates in the early morning. Opening my eyes, I glanced over at Sam. His expression was that of blatant concern, and his hand still gripped my upper arm.

"I'm okay." I assured him, patting his hand. He continued to stare back at me with those intense eyes of his, completely serious.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," There was still a dull throbbing in the side of my head, but I did not want to worry Sam by bringing it to attention. Sam's hand slid down my arm to grip my wrist. Not too tightly, but firm enough to necessitate eye contact.

"You should go home." He affirmed, eyes flickering. "You need to take it easy."

"But...I promised to dance with you earlier." I replied weakly.

"Kurt, please." Sam's voice was strained, pleading. "Just get out of here."

I looked away. "Fine. Everyone wants me to leave, it was about time you joined the wagon." I stood then, fighting back the urge to collapse as auras once again danced into my vision.

"That's not what I meant-" Sam began to stand up, making a move to follow after me.

"It's exactly what you meant." I replied, exiting the barn and grabbing the door to close it.

"I know your secret."

I froze. Ahead of me, the crowd was still dancing and singing, completely unaware of what had just happened. Slowly looking back, I trained my eyes on Sam, trembling. "What?"

"I know what you're hiding. I know everything."

I opened my mouth to respond.

Instead, I turned and ran.

_Blaine_

After several fast-paced dances, Santana, a few her friends who had joined us, and I were pulsing with adrenaline and ale. Well, they were at least. I'd refused to indulge in the dangerous beverages and had taken only a few sips, just enough to loosen my nerves. The girls, however, had loosened much more than just their nerves.

"We should get away from here." One of Santana's friends, a long-haired blonde named Brittany, had murmured the invitation into my ear between dances, running her hands down my body scandalously.

I had stepped away from her, shaking my head. "I'm sorry...I couldn't."

"Why not?" Santana, who had overheard the conversation, stood behind her and appraised me.

"Because," I was suddenly facing several pairs of bewildered eyes. "I'm not like that."

I swore I saw hurt flash across Brittany's face at my reply. Santana's eyes narrowed and she draped her arms around the other girl's shoulders protectively. "What exactly," her voice was dangerously low, "are you implying?"

"I'm sorry." I repeated, casting Brittany an apologetic look before leaving them behind in the crowd. The air grew cooler as I put as much distance between the celebrators and myself. I began to walk the perimeter of the village, keeping close to the forest, trying to familiarize myself with the surroundings. That would be a very important factor in completing our hunt. If we had good recollection of every branch, every pine needle, every crystal of ice that clung to the naked bushes, we would be safe...er. Know your environment as much, it not more than, your opponent. I peered into the black of the forest, transfixed by the stillness it possessed. Something was pulling me in, a silent siren call beckoning me to come closer, and without a second thought, I pushed through a thicket of branches and entered the darkness.

_Kurt_

My feet drove against the ground hard as I ran through the Forest. I did not know where I was going. All I knew was that I needed to get away-far, far away. Twigs and clung to my clothes and boughs scratched their wooden fingers across my bare arms and face. My cheek burned furiously as a particularly sharp branch struck my face when I passed underneath the massive trees around me. The chill air pricked my lips, and I licked them repeatedly, guaranteeing that they would be unbecomingly chapped in the next few days to come.

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered right then.

Finally, I stopped to catch my breath, leaning back against the trunk of an elderly hemlock and sliding my eyes shut.

Sam knew. He knew that I was...who I was. How long had he known? And who else knew? And how would this come to affect me? How would people treat me? Would they feel sorry for me? Or would they look down at me like I was some sort of diseased animal lying on the ground, waiting to die? What would Carole think? And...God, what would my father think?

The horrifying reality of my situation hit me, just then, and I crumpled to the ground, tears stinging my face as they cascaded across the cuts left by the trees. And I sat there and just cried.

I cried because I was different from everyone else.

I cried because I would ultimately be nothing more than a disappointment to my father.

I cried because my stepbrother hated me and was more than willing to show it.

I cried because all I ever wanted was to know that I was loved.

I cried because my mother was not there to comfort me, to hold me, to tell me everything would be alright.

I cried because I had lost so many people in my life.

I cried because there was that boy, that Blaine, who had looked at me so secretively, like he knew something about me that even I myself had yet to discover.

But most of all, I cried because I did not know what I was crying about. Nothing? Everything?

A sudden snap of a twig caused my sobbing to halt. I found myself once again frozen. My eyes darted around the Forest, searching for the source of the noise.

"Who's there?"

Another snap. Swallowing, I slowly stood, staying close to the trunk of the tree, digging my fingernails into the rough bark.

"I know someone's there." My voice wavered as I addressed whatever company I had.

A third snap, this one coming from directly behind me. I whirled around, backing away from the tree, my eyes wide.

A large figure emerged from the shadows, illuminated by the scant moonlight that shown from behind the gray clouds.

"A little late for a walk in the woods, isn't it, Hummel?" David observed, his tone casual.

I was not sure whether I should have been relieved it was David or not. Hastily, I wiped my sleeves across my cheeks, trying to hide the evidence of my shedder tears.

"This a normal thing for you?" he asked, grinning. "Running away into the big bad woods to cry like the girl you are?"

I refused to look him in the eye. From out of nowhere, a sudden rage had begun to build up inside of me, hot and intense, coursing through my chest and rising to my head. My hands balled up into fists as David continued to taunt me.

"Why don't you just go crying to your mama? Oh, that's right. You don't have one, do you? She died, didn't she? As did your old lady, didn't she? God." He laughed snidely. "You're family is so fucked up."

"SHUT UP!"

David frowned. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said," My fists were shaking as I turned my head to look him directly in the eyes. "Shut. Up."

"What's your problem, Hummel?"

"That is more a more appropriate question for you. What is YOUR problem?" I countered.

David stepped closer. "I," he declared, "don't have a problem."

"You're not at all as tough as you'd like to think you are. You're weak."

I could see him practically swell with apprehension, and before I knew what was happening, I was being thrown back against another tree, David's hands dangerously close to my face.

"Do not push me, Hummel." He growled. I gazed at his fist apathetically.

"You going to hit me, David? Do it."

"Do NOT push me!"

"Hit me because it's not going to change what I am. You know what I am, don't you? Why don't you go ahead and say it?"

David was silent, glowering down at me from his immense height.

"I'm different. I'm a homosexual. And you know what you are? You're a coward. And, all those threats you make towards me? They are empty. They are empty just like your heart and brain. So hit me. Because it's not going to change what I am. Who I am. Just like how I can't change your cowardice by hitting you."

David's hand was around my neck now, but I pushed onward, my anger giving me a surge of tenacity that I had never experienced before.

"You are nothing more than a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are-"

David's hands seized my face and his lips crushed mine, ending my speech abruptly. I stood rooted in my spot, initially too shocked to react. His mouth moved against mine violently, forcing my lips open as he pushed closer and closer, even though I was as far back against the tree as possible, cutting off my connection to air. I fought against his grip, trying to pull away, or at least turn my face to the side, but there was no point. He was too strong.

I eventually managed to slip my hand free and, without hesitation, slapped him hard across the face. It was enough force to cause him to stumble backwards, clutching his reddened cheek. He pulled his hand away and stared at me, then down at his hand, and then once again up at me.

"You're a dead man."

He charged forward then, and I flinched, raising my arms up over my face in defense. Moments passed, and having received no blow as a rebuttal, I peered over my arms. David stood, petrified, his eyes no longer on my face but focused on something lurking behind the tree I was pushed against. His face had blanched a sickly white and his eyes looked like large silver dollars.

"No..."

Instinct told me to remain completely still, though I really wanted to know what exactly was behind me that had caused David to stop his assault. The taller boy was backing away, whimpering pitifully.

A loud, chilling growl penetrated the air. My blood ran cold. Some of the grungy gray clouds had parted, revealing the moon, which had taken the formation of a half circle.

No. My thoughts echoed him.

David spun around and ran.

The massive wolf lunged after him, mouth curled into a snarl. David was fast...but even fast was not enough. My jaw dropped open in a silent scream as the wolf's teeth sunk into David's shoulder and it tore off his flesh. He was thrown to the ground, shrieking in pain, clutching at what had been his arm, now mutilated and grisly.

Blood. There was so much blood. It stood out, a gruesome scarlet against the otherwise colorless dirt. And oh god, I could smell it, a pungent, gory mixture of sickly-sweet and rusting metal. I heaved, clapping a hand over my mouth as the scent invaded my nostrils. Bile rose to my throat as I watched the scene, unable to tear my eyes away as the wolf continued to rip into David, whose screams had morphed into a low, inhuman moan.

I wanted to stop it. I wanted to throw myself at the monster, to make it stop attacking David and take me instead. Yet at the same time, I wanted to grab anything I could find that could possibly pose as a weapon and kill it. There would be no point in doing so, however. I stood no chance against a werewolf.

There was a sickening snap. David let out strangled gargle and then fell silent.

I let out a choked sob as the wolf lumbered off of him and I caught a glimpse of his mangled corpse. Running its red tongue across its bloodied lips, the wolf then turned towards me. I shut my eyes, accepting the fact that I was about to die.

_Kurt._

The voice was low, much like the growls that rumbled up from the wolf's throat.

_Look at me_

I found myself staring deeply into the monster's eyes, a pair of fathomless amber orbs set against thick, black fur.

"You talk."

_And you understand me. That is all that matters._

The wolf's mouth remained closed as the voice spoke to me, its gaze never faltering.

My eyes flickered over to David's waxen face, his expression frozen into a thunderstruck gasp.

"You killed him."

_The boy was a threat. He deserved his fate._

I shuddered at how blasé the voice seemed about describing its murderous actions towards my people.

"Am I deserving of the same fate?" I breathed, imagining where the wolf would strike me first. Would he-that was me assuming it was indeed a he-go for the jugular and bring everything to a quick end? Or would he make it slow and excruciating, pulling me apart bit by bit? My eyes lingered on the evidence of slaughter that was smeared on the monster's muzzle. The wolf shifted, pacing around the tree, its eyes boring into my own.

_I have been observing you for some time now, Kurt. I see how unhappy you are. You wish to leave this village, to explore beyond this mundane Forest. You wish to leave behind all these primeval individuals, to find people whose intelligence rivals your own. You wish to get away._

"How do you know these things? Who are you?"

_That is not important at this time; you shall find out soon enough. Come away with me, Kurt. Let me take you from here. I can make you happy again. Come away with me._

I shook my head. "Never."

_Very well. I will wait. The longer I do so, the longer the list of those dead will grow. Who will be next? The prophetess? That priest that your people depend so highly on? Perhaps your father?_

"I will not let you hurt what is left of my family."

The wolf let out a hoarse grunt that sounded almost like it was laughing. _You will not have a choice. I will return for you by the next pregnant moon. Until then, _the wolf's eyes glinted, _there remains blood to be paid._

"KURT!"

A person burst forth from the wild bushes that grew across from my tree in tangled webs. The wolf spun around, hackles rising, and bared its teeth at the intruder.

_Blaine_

It was larger than I had expected.

Yet I stood my ground, a crucifix extended in one hand, a blade grasped in the other. The beast had cornered Kurt against a tree; the poor boy was shaking violently, looking even more vulnerable than before. His blue eyes glistened with unshed tears as he stared back at me with pure terror. My eyes wandered from the wolf, following the river of gore that was pooled under my feet to the contorted body that lay before me, still bleeding from the partially-masticated gashes torn into it.

I had hoped with all my might that this could have been avoided. But rather than stop to question what the two boys were doing in the middle of the woods on a designated wolf night, I returned my attention to the snarling creature that was crouched in front of me.

"Don't you touch him."

I had never been alone when confronting a werewolf. Honestly, I was scared out of my mind. I took a step towards the monster, wincing as my shoe sloshed through the grisly puddle, and thrust the crucifix forward. The wolf recoiled, forcing Kurt even further against the trunk. Then it turned, looking back at the trembling boy and let out a low growl before bounding straight past me, knocking the crucifix from my hands in a single fluid motion, and disappearing into the trees.

I stepped over the corpse, towards Kurt, whose gaze remained on the trees the wolf had run through.

"Kurt..."

He looked over at me as if realizing I was still there. A single tear fell down his cheek, before he collapsed to the ground. Dropping the crucifix, I approached the sobbing boy, falling to my knees.

"Kurt." I touched his shoulder.

"He's dead!" he wailed. "David's dead! And I-I saw it happen. I saw the wolf kill him, and I didn't stop it."

I pulled the boy close, trying to console him. Kurt buried his face into my shoulder, still crying, his tears soaking into my vest.

"Let me get you out of here." I said softly, rising and pulling him to his feet. "We'll tell the others and they will decide what is to be done with David's body."

Kurt nodded cooperatively and I took hold of his arm, turning him to look me in the eyes.

"The wolf didn't attack you." I murmured, running my thumb against his elbow thoughtfully. "Kurt, it's not like werewolves to be merciful..." I trailed off, gazing into his glassy blue eyes.

Maybe there was more to this boy than I thought...

_Kurt_

I stared up at Blaine's face as he led me away from David's body, the wolf's final words echoed through my mind.

_He will be the next to die._

Somewhere in the distance, a mournful howl filled the air.

* * *

><p><strong>Phew! Another chapter done. By the way, before you all rip me to pieces, let it be known that I actually like Karofsky in the show. But when I'm in author stage...favoritism is irrelevent. *shrugs*<strong>

**Please review :) Every word is greatly appreciated! **

**Until next time!**


	6. The Aftermath

**A/N: You don't need to tell me, I am aware that I am a horrible author. HOR-RI-BLE. I am also fully aware that this chapter is one, two, five, eight (eight?!) months late and your patience is thin if nonexistent. My excuse is that I'd given up writing for a month or do due to a ruthless case of extreme writer's block. And lack of inspiration. Aaaaand a tiny bit of laziness. Oy. Anyway, I promise that a gap like this will NOT happen again. So here's the tardy chapter. Enjoy.**

**~Ceecee-**

* * *

><p><em>Blaine<em>

We didn't speak as I carefully guided Kurt back though the thick wall of trees. There was really nothing to say. Kurt was crying silently, tears cascading down his face, catching the attention of the dull light the moon provided. It was the most beautiful but concurrently the most heart-wrenching sight I had ever laid eyes upon. I couldn't dispel the memory of the weeping angel statues that had always stood erect by the altar of the cathedral that, back at our town, my mom and I had visited every Sunday. That is, until she was murdered. We would go to watch my dad give his sermons, and while he spoke about how the Lord was to save us from ourselves, my eyes would remain on those seraphs, captivated by the composed grace of their lamenting. I would constantly wonder what horrible sins a person would have had to have committed to cause those beautiful creatures such despair. And right then, I felt like I was back in the cathedral, standing behind a pew, disregarding my dad's words and watching the carved form of a cherubic boy, suddenly brought to life, crying without offering some form of reposition. Though all I wanted to do was stop and take him into my arms, to hold him and assure him that he was safe with me, to gently run my thumb across his tear-stained face and wipe away his sorrows with the touch of a fingertip. And then bring my face in closer, feeling his soft, porcelain skin underneath the coarse texture of my palms and our breath mingle into a thin cloud of steam against the cold as our lips finally met...

I was jolted, rather violently, back into reality by my unholy thoughts. For this was not one of the girls I had danced with, composed of flirtatious words and concealed giggles and fluttering eyelashes. This was a boy. _A boy._ Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I kept a firm hold on Kurt's shoulder, ever so often giving it a squeeze to ensure that he stayed close to me. That much I knew I could do without losing myself and giving in to actions that would be without a doubt overstepping my boundaries. And his. However, as time permitted, glancing back at Kurt's face it was brought to my attention the fact that I still had so many unanswered questions about this boy. None of the people, out of all the villages dad and I had ventured to, had ever come across to me as so intriguing before, and I wanted to know more about him. Why was he so timid? How old was he? What was the story of his past? How much did that boy I had seen ripped apart on the ground mean to him? And what exactly had been his reason for being in the forest in the night anyway? That question irked me the most.  
>Meanwhile, the visibility of the trees had begun to fade. The moon was once again being enveloped in clouds and the light on the forest floor was vanishing with it, leaving our pathway in nothing but shadows. I squinted as my eyes strained to adjust to the sudden absence of light, frowning when I realized Kurt was no longer beside me. Somewhere between this and our recent turn around, I'd lost my hold on his shoulder. For a moment I panicked, and, thinking I'd lost him, I reached out blindly until my hand brushed Kurt's sleeve. He jumped at my touch and instinctively jerked away.<br>"Stay close." I said, finding his arm again. There was some shuffling and then he was next to me again, nearer than before, tucked-in close by my side. It still remained dark, and I could barely make out the outline of his face, let alone the ground at my feet. Our walk was fairly smooth despite this, though I managed to stumble over unknown obstacles more than once. Kurt remained attached to me, never faltering. As if he and the woods knew each other well.  
>Perhaps they did.<p>

"Where the hell have you been?"

Fresh tears flooded Kurt's eyes as the crestfallen boy pulled away from me and allowed himself to be enveloped into the awaiting arms of an ebony-skinned girl.

"'Cedes..." he moaned, sobbing into her neck. The girl frowned, her eyes locking with mine.

"What happened." It wasn't phrased as a question, more a demand, directed solely at me. I suddenly realized how suspicious the scene appeared to a bystander; me emerging from the dark thicket, clutching firmly onto the shoulder of a crying boy, blood soaked into the soles of my shoes.  
>Oh.<p>

I squared my shoulders and returned the girl's piercing gaze. "Find my father."

"What's going on?" A girl with short blonde hair inquired from behind the first, concern creasing her brow as she balanced a cup of water in the crook of her arm while reaching out to rub Kurt's shoulder. "Kurt, here, drink." Kurt lifted his head and grabbed the cup, swallowing the water in one go.

"Find my father." I repeated. "Tell him there's been an attack."

Both girls were quiet. Finally, the doe-eyed blonde nodded, turning back towards the still-jubilating crowd. I followed suit, pausing to look over at the girl who was practically cradling Kurt in her arms.

"Get Kurt inside. He has been through a lot this evening." Kurt, whose head had returned to the asylum of the girl's shoulder, looked up at the mention of his name and our eyes briefly met.  
>Again, I was filled with the overwhelming urge to gather him in my arms. Instead, like any good priest's son would do, I turned my eyes away and returned to my work.<p>

_Kurt_

As if my village was not already dismal enough, throwing a ceremony of death-especially for someone so young-caused it to become swollen with so much grief that hell itself looked sunny in comparison. The days seemed grayer, the nights colder, the people more and more weary with every passing moment. We waited for the sanctuary of daylight and sent our bravest to recover David's corpse from the Forest. His parents, Paul and Maury, were devastated to hear of their son's sudden, violent end. And I could not help but feel responsible. With a heart as heavy as lead, I watched as the boys of our village and Paul cut down the large tree that would be used for David's casket. I was sitting at the base of a tree several yards away when the tree was brought down. The men had laid planks of wood on the floor to catch it, and proceeded to remove and replace the planks from the end as they maneuvered it through the Forest. Though I would never tell, it was the tree that David had confronted me at. The irony was cold, but incredibly real, and it caused every part of me to ache in silent remorse.  
>"Paul?" I looked up from the sprig from which I had been plucking pine needles off of as Finn addressed David's father. "It's time."<br>Finn handed an axe to Paul, nodding towards the tree's wide trunk. Paul stepped up to the tree, hefting the axe, and closing his eyes. He breathed in and exhaled. Once. Twice. Three times.  
>The axe came down swiftly, sinking into the wood with a heavy thunk. Then the rest of the woodworkers began their work and I returned my attention to the pine sprig remaining all-too-focused on removing the needles one by one and dropping them into a neat pile beside me.<p>

"Hey."  
>Someone nudged my foot with their boot. I continued my busy work, not bothering to look up. "Hello."<p>

"This uh, this spot free?"

I briefly glanced over at the space next to me, wanting to say no, and shrugged. "Depends," I replied slowly, "on what you're planning on saying to me."

There was a pause and suddenly another body was sliding down to the pine-scattered ground, settling down next to me with a deep sigh. "Well," Sam pulled one of his rough leather working gloves off and stretched out his fingers, "what exactly do you want to hear?" I opened my mouth to give him a witty response, maybe even to tell him to leave me alone, but stopped myself when I realized I had no answer to his question. Really, I did not know what I wanted to hear; I was not looking for an apology-I'd received my fair share following the accident, and was tired of monotonously hearing "I'm so sorry" being said in voices that almost seemed to not mean what they claimed. But synchronously, I was searching for evidence that someone-anyone-cared. Sam brushed my shoulder with his gloveless hand, picking up a stray pine needle from my vest and tossing it away absently. "Kurt..." He paused, resting his head against the trunk and sighing again. "Talk to me. Please."

"What secret?" I asked suddenly, turning my head very slightly to meet his eyes. An expression of pure perplexity spread across Sam's face.

"I...what?"

" ." I repeated, clipping my words, " .Know." Sam pulled his hand away, now running it across the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable.  
>"Look...I don't think now is the ideal time to talk about this?"I stared back at him until he tore his eyes away from mine. "I was drunk. And pretty lonely. And I didn't want you to leave. So I said something that I thought might...might make you stay." A sudden wave of relief flooded through my body. Because Sam didn't know. He had been bluffing the entire time. He didn't know. For the first time in days, I gave myself permission to smile. Maybe I could still keep the unknown half of my person in the dark. No one else necessarily needed to know about him."So uh..." Sam continued, "I should probably explain the real reason why I wanted to talk to you. The Rendezvous party is venturing out again soon. In about a month's time, between moon cycles."<p>

"And why are you telling me this? Are you playing the part of some kind of messenger or something?"

"No, I just want you to come with me. You should come with us, I mean. I'm going with the party and...you should come. It'd be an adventure. God knows you probably haven't experienced one of those in a while."

"Ever, you mean."

"Well...yeah. You always do the same thing everyday and I think...I think it would be good for you, getting a breath of fresh air and experiencing some new surroundings."

I shook my head, wondering just how Sam's thoughts worked themselves through in that blonde head of his. "I don't know if-"

"You're telling me you've never wished you could get out of here? Go out, see the world? Don't you want to, you know, get away from it all?" Sam leaned in, close enough so that I could feel the warmth of his body, even through the cool wind. "You deserve so much more than THIS. Washing clothes in a stream and making food; that's really what you hope to do with your life? You're not some housemaid, Kurt. And I'm so tired of you letting other people treat you like _shit_. "

"Sam..." He was getting too close, setting me on edge. I put my hand out defensively. Sam stopped himself, pulling away.

"Promise me you'll at least think about going. Just consider it. There's plenty of time, I don't need an answer this very minute. But please, promise me."  
>There was something so desperate in the way he looked at me then. The way his eyes seemed to plead at me.<br>_Yes. Yes. Just say yes._

I glanced down at the now-bare sprig in my hands, running my thumb down the bark. Without its prickly green coat, the sprig was nothing. Naked. Vulnerable. One helpless piece of forestry forever torn away from the rest of the tree. Now it had no choice but to slowly die. But as I continued to examine the stick, it seemed to change, morphing and stretching into a series of possibilities. It was not a dead piece of bark, but so many other things. A young boy's toy sword, a poker for a fire, firewood itself. I was tying feathers to the end, turning it into a decoration. A woodsman was carving shapes into it, making a totem, or sharpening the end to make a small suddenly I could hear my mother's voice, speaking gently to a smaller, much younger me as I cried over the realization that I was not strong like the other boys were and therefore was useless.

_You were born with a purpose. Life is just the journey to discovering what that purpose is._

"I promise."

It took the strenuous work of four men to complete David's casket, and of two men to dig the grave, which was set back in the forest bordering the rear of his house. Very few flowers grow during the winter hours, so we gathered the most pleasant of herbs and blooming weeds to scatter along the graveside and inside the grave itself. Naturally, the ceremony was held at David's house. The whole village was compacted around the small burial site, people pressed up against one another for a final glimpse of the casket. Mercedes and Rachel held each of my hands as Paul lowered it into the crevice, his tears garbling every word he spoke. Maury, who was escorted by Carole, had to leave halfway through the ceremony, her sobbing so hysterical that she was gasping for air. We all bowed our heads in silent reverence as Father Anderson raised his hands to the heavens and began to speak.

"My brothers and sisters, hear me now when I declare how my soul reaches out to all those who are suffering from this tragic loss. To lose a person is indeed a painful experience. But to lose a son, not unlike the Virgin losing Christ to the sins of others, is a malady to the health of the conscience. May David find end to his inner turmoil through the sanctity of our God, and may we all, too, find that salvation at the eventual destruction of our...demons. However, I must implore you all to hear this: David's death will not be one left in vain. Here and now, I pledge an oath to each and every one of you who gathers here. And I swear, on the name of the Lord Himself, to find the evil among us that had caused such despair and put it to end for all eternity." I looked up to find Father Anderson's eyes locked on the crowd, directed towards one person in particular. Me.  
>"In these words, I pray. Amenth."<p>

I breathed in sharply. Because all of a sudden my blood had turned cold as ice, sending a series of chills racing through my body. His eyes were dark. Very, very dark.

"Amenth."  
>My lips moved but no sound came out. The thump of soil being tossed over the casket drew the Father's attention away from me, and warmth flowed back into my veins, but my eyes remained on him. One by one, people threw their handfuls of dirt into the grave, saying their last goodbyes before slowly turning away to begin daily work. When it came to be my turn, I was hesitant. Cautiously, I stepped forward and leaned over the grave, peering into the darkness. Many people had approached the grave before me, and the casket was already covered by a thin layer of soil. Raising my arm over the cavity, I released my handful at a leisurely pace, uncurling each finger from its fist one after another, the soil dropping in segments. After my hand was empty, I stared at the mound of dirt, as if expecting for something to happen.<br>Of course, nothing did.  
>David was dead.<p>

_Blaine_

"I hope you are pleased with yourself."

The force of wood hitting wood as I threw my crucifix down on the rickety table caused the whole floor shudder. My dad's gaze remained on the pages of the yellowed tome cracked open in front of him, his fingers stroking the edges of the pages as if he were petting some kind of animal. "Do not be a fool, Blaine."

"I'm the fool? Another person is dead, because of you!"

"Young David is dead. Torn limb from limb. It was tragic, yes, but unavoidable."

"If everyone had stayed inside like I'd advised, he'd still be alive."

Dad slammed the book shut with such aggression that dust was thrown into the air, causing me to squint. "Now you listen to me, Blaine. You know perfectly well why I had to have those villagers out on that night. The boy should not have been in the forest, but keep in mind that it was his fault, not mine. But if there is one thing I have learned from that attack, it is that this wolf we have is not a shy one; it had no hesitation in killing with an audience. However, I am sure that there is more to the situation than you think."

I searched his irritatingly stoic expression for some sense of what exactly he was scheming about. "You know, Blaine, that I have been slaying these creatures for almost ten years, and I know perfectly well what I am doing. You said there were two boys in the forest, yes? And only one was killed?" I nodded. "So the question is, why did the other one live? From what I have heard, this particular wolf has killed recklessly in the past. It would never hesitate to taste human blood. What is it that makes that one boy so special?"

I waited for him to continue for a moment before realizing that the question was not rhetorical and that dad was expecting an answer from me. "I don't know."

"Exactly. And so, Blaine, it would be best for you to stop making an ass of yourself by talking back to your father and cooperate."

I didn't want to. Honestly, it would've felt so much better to resist him. But there would be no point in doing so. No one would listen to the priest's sidekick of a son. And judging by my dad's triumphant smirk, he was well aware of this. So I reclaimed my pawn and continued playing his twisted little game.

"What do you mean by 'audience'?" I asked carefully, trying to make out the rules.

"The boy, of course."

"Which boy?"

Dad's eyes glinted. "You know very well which boy."  
><em><br>_Of course I did. "What do you want with him? What value could he possibly have to you?"

Dad blinked at me for a moment and surprised me with a chuckle. "You have no possible idea. And it is not what I want from him, but what you want."

I stared back at him, genuinely confused. "What?"

"You are just as interested in the boy as I, Blaine. Which is why you are going to befriend him. Earn his trust. Wait until his guard is down and then strike-" he pounded his fist against the book "-when he's most susceptible. There are things that he knows, Blaine. Things he will not allude to. And you WILL find out what they are, and you will tell me. Do you understand?"

My dad was going to win his game. He always would win. And it made sense to win when you made up your own rules as the game progressed and had it rigged so you were guaranteed victory. Time after time.

"I understand." I turned to leave, when something caught my eye. Fighting to ignore the growing weight in my chest, I picked up my crucifix from where it had been violently abandoned and left my morals behind.

The cloudy sky was unusually bright, the light blinding compared to the shadowy chapel my dad had recruited as his temporary camp. Not too many villagers were out, choosing instead to hunker down in the warmth of their own homes. The sound of hushed voices approaching made me stop and I turned my head to the direction from where they came. A couple with matching dark hair and tan skin walked alongside one another, oblivious to everything but themselves. The boy whispered something into the girl's ear and she smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder as they strolled by me. Then, the girl raised her head, calling out to a familiar figure pulling up water from the well. He waved, setting the bucket down to talk to her. His eyes flickered past the couple as they approached and focused on me for one of the briefest of moments, before setting back to the people in front of him.

My heart sank like an anchor thrown out to sea; travelling deeper and deeper under the surface, into waters so dark no man had yet to explore them. Could I possibly follow my dad's orders? The answer was clear as I watched Kurt balance the bucket and carefully carry it to what I presumed would be his house.

_I won't let him hurt you._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: It's short, yes I know. But I promise I'm working to get another chapter up soon. :)**


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